


Cherub

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Angel Clarke, Angel Smut?, Clexa Week 2018, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-18 15:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13684266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Clarke recently got her wings, bow and arrow included. Lexa is the unwitting recipient of her poor aim.





	1. Chapter 1

*********

 

“What the fu—”

Lexa feels a pinprick sensation in her leg, and looks down to find a small black arrow sticking out of it. She’s curled on the ground in broad daylight, having fallen gracelessly onto the sidewalk after a sudden sharp pain had knocked her off her feet mid-stride.

As she’s rubbing the sore spot, careful not to dislodge the intrusion further, a soft shadow casts over her. She looks up to see a blonde angel.

A literal angel.

There is light glowing behind her golden hair.

Before Lexa can make sense of anything, the arrow is unceremoniously pulled from her leg.

“Ow.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” The angel looks contrite and extends a hand to pull Lexa to her feet. “Are you ok?”

 _Whoa_.

Up close they’re the bluest eyes Lexa has ever seen. Against pale skin, they shine even brighter. She wonders what skin care products the angel uses. It looks so smooth, and just as soft.

Would it be weird to reach out and touch? _Probably_. But she inexplicably feels a keening want to do so.

The angel glances up and down Lexa’s body to check for any life-threatening injuries, when none is evident, her attention turns to inspecting her weapon for defects.

Brows furrow and lips thin as her eyes squint to assess the instrument, which actually looks more like a long dart, just shy of arrow length, now that Lexa can see it more clearly with the fog of her shock lifted.

A tongue pokes out at the same time that a finger prods at the tip, as if tapping for a response.

When the angel turns to lift it up for a better angle against the sunlight, Lexa notices black feathers sticking out of the base of her top that’s risen up, not missing either the bow that’s slung across her back.

“You’re a cherub.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“No, cherub,” Lexa tries again, annunciating more slowly this time. And points to what she’s fairly certain are wings hidden under the leather jacket.

“Oh! You mean chair-rib?” The angel re-pronounces, with a musical whimsy, finally cluing in. “Ah, no. We don’t use that word up there.”

“Why not?”

“We celebrate all different sizes and promote a healthy relationship with one’s inner wings. Charlie and Victoria have set impossible standards for those of us who enjoy star-dusted pastries.”

She rubs her stomach protectively.

Lexa just nods, not knowing how to respond to that. Though she feels comforted somewhat that even a higher celestial order struggles with body image and political correctness.

“Oh, ok. What should I call you then?”

“Clarke.” The ~~cherub~~ angel brightens and sticks her hand out for Lexa to shake.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Lexa.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

Lexa is perplexed as to how Clarke, a winged angel carrying a bow and arrow but decidedly not-a-cherub, would know who she is.

“Yes, I’m the Angel of Breath.”

“You mean death?”

“No, breath. I’m medically trained. I just passed my exams.” Crystal blue eyes smile at her as she proudly states, “I’m fully certified now. Received my wings last week!”

Clarke looks over her shoulder and shimmies a little, fluffing a few feathers.

 _Certified for what?_ Lexa is curious to know but hesitant to ask.

“Congratulations,” she offers instead.

“Thanks. You’re my first assignment.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you look like you’re always in a hurry and running out of breath.”

 _Ah, the Angel of Breath_. Lexa thinks she gets it now.

“I’m finishing up law school and also interning. It’s a challenge to come up for air sometimes.”

“That’s what I’m here for. To inject air where it’s needed. I’ve had some practice runs at children’s parties with birthday balloons. That was way more fun than trying to inflate male egos.”

“How does it work?” Lexa asks pointing to her calf where there’s a tiny but still noticeable hole. She feels a slight throbbing despite its small size.

Clarke looks sheepish to answer.

“Um … uh … it’s supposed to have hit closer to your lungs but the archery lessons haven’t been working out as planned. When it does meet its target you actually wouldn’t feel anything. The arrow would self destruct on impact,” Clarke makes a poof gesture with her hands, “and you wouldn’t even know it.”

Lexa’s inner lawyer wants to argue that a small pointed missile and a pair of lungs don’t seem like the most logical combination. But who is she to question the gods.

"And it works?"

“You know when people say they got a second wind?”

Lexa nods. Clarke beams, rocks on her feet and points a finger at herself. “Us. Not wind.”

“Cool.”

“So, how do you feel?”

“Not any different, really.”

“Let me see.”

That was Lexa’s only warning before Clarke steps in closer.

She pulls a stethoscope out of her pocket, and wordlessly turns Lexa around so she could have a clearer listen of her lungs.

“It’d be better if you were topless,” Clarke says.

Lexa can only stand stock still as a hand gently gathers her hair and sweeps it aside over her shoulder to place the diaphragm at the top of her back. She shudders when cold metal makes contact through the thin of her shirt, and gasps when Clarke’s other hand grips her waist to hold her in place.

The stethoscope drum moves up and down, side to side, before the angel turns Lexa back around to face her and then repeats the process, starting with the upper chest then down.

Lexa isn’t sure what Clarke is hearing but with their proximity she can definitely feel a change in her inhale and exhale patterns.

It ends too soon. The warmth of the angel’s body leaves her a second later, assessment complete.

“Weird, everything sounds normal. No respiratory irregularities.”

Lexa wonders what is weird about that. Shouldn’t it be normal and regular?

“I know I was off my target, but you should have at least felt some increase. Nothing?”

Lexa bites her lip and shakes her head, sorry to disappoint the angel. She only felt a momentary lost of breath when she stumbled to the pavement, but otherwise, nothing.

Clarke frowns at the black arrow, turning it over and over and eyeing it accusingly. Her eyes widen when she makes a discovery.

“Goddamnit, I picked up Cupid’s arrows again. That lazy ass is always leaving his stuff around.”

Just as she is about to curse the love mischief some more, Clarke accidentally pricks herself on the arrow’s tip.

“Oh, no.”

“You ok?” Lexa asks concerned, unthinkingly reaching to take Clarke’s hand in hers. Again an inexplicable urge. She wants to kiss the boo boo.

“Cupid usually uses white arrows on humans. They’re slower to take. But the fucker has been testing out black ones recently. Making them stronger to see if he could speed up the process but also to get angels to fall for each other. When the arrow pierces any two beings within minutes of one another, they’ll become eternal lovers.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. We really do need a better colour-code system for arrow identification.”

“How long before it sets in?” Lexa asks.

“Not long, it depends on—” Clarke starts to explain but then gets distracted by Lexa’s green eyes, “whoa,” she echoes Lexa’s earlier sentiment.

“You’re really pretty, for a mortal.”

“You’re really pretty, for a not-cherub.”

This time, Lexa doesn’t hesitate to reach out and pull the angel into a kiss.

She was right. Very smooth and soft.

—

“Lexa?”

“Yes, Clarke?” Lexa responds as they walk down the street, hand in hand, with Clarke’s head on her shoulder and her wing poking her side.

“Could you fill out this comment card later? If you wouldn’t mind just rating how the experience was, that’d be great. Especially if it left you breathless. We have monthly evaluations.”

“Sure, love.” Lexa kisses the top of her head.

“But maybe not mention that I accidentally made you fall in love with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa tries to read. Clarke’s less-than-angelic ways make it very difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t leave well-enough alone. Like cherubs, and Lexa’s love for a particular one, ClexaWeek 2018 — Accidental Stimulation was too hard to resist. This certainly went in a different direction. Please note the rating upgrade, with deepest apologies. :)

*********

Lexa is a voracious reader.

She loves words. Their discrete meanings, and how when stringed together, depending on their arrangement, can create new worlds and reinvent old ones.

She reads everything. From the classics in fiction to academic texts to NASA launch logs to microwave instruction manuals. Nothing is above or beneath her thirst for knowledge or life-long pursuit of truth.

That’s why law school made sense, turning her everyday preoccupation into a professional occupation.

But while her busy days are spent articling and absorbing the minutiae of legal fine print, Lexa happily continues to be an autodidact in all other aspects of life.

Her latest self-education project: cherubs.

Well, one particular cherub, really. But to get to know Clarke, her angel and now-eternal love, she wanted to understand her kind better.

It has been a steep learning curve being in a relationship with a winged angel. Not because it was a difficult subject to study—quite the opposite, easily her new favourite—but because there was so much that Lexa simply did’t know.

For one, they believe in inter-celestial marriages but not the concept of engagements. Human lesbians seem like sloths pulling their U-haul wagons through mud in comparison to how quickly cherub-love evolves, especially when Cupid’s arrow had accelerated the process.

_“Would you like to burn this eternal flame with me?_

_If you feel my heart beating_  
_If you understand_  
_If you feel the same_

_Say my name we’ll run through the rain.”_

Lexa had been so swept up by the impromptu serenade, too busy rhythmically tapping her foot and pondering if this was an Atomic Kitten’s cover, or her preferred version, the Bangles original, to notice the hopeful, expectant look.

At her non-answer, Clarke looked up from her batting eyelashes and squatting position, a flash of hurt crossing her face that she may have butchered the human tradition of sentimentality on bended knees.

“No, no, it was great. You have an angelic voice. And I do love saying your name, _Clarke_ ,” Lexa had rushed to reassure as she pulled Clarke to her feet, though still in the dark about the odd courting practice.

Maybe it was a cherub thing.

“Great! We can be bonded tomorrow then,” Clarke had interpreted her confusion as acceptance of an apparent proposal, and dragged Lexa to the Acropolis’ main chapel the next afternoon.

A believer of concrete action over abstract ideas, ever-logical Lexa—once finally clued-in to the day’s itinerary—saw no reason to protest the ritual of permanence that would seal her fate to Clarke’s.

She had already felt the brand of Clarke’s name inscribed unto her heart that day on the sidewalk, a signature on a piece of cloud paper wouldn’t make a difference.

“Why wait when forever is already here?” made a lot of sense when staring into depths of blue.

The second thing she found out, on entering the holy place, was that cherubs wore many different hats. That, or Clarke had bullied Cupid into being their officiant after his personal hygiene habits and general disorganisation had caused her to unwittingly prick a human with the extra-strong love potion.

The third, that they were frugal beings, making stardust stretch where possible. Not only was it favoured for confectionery and culinary uses, but for ceremonial ones as well. Not dissimilar to humans’ affection for gold.

As stardust was sprinkled over them, the particles swirling and then collecting on their hands to entwine and bind them together for always, Lexa learned something else. When Clarke was unbelievably happy, her wings would grow and expand large enough to wrap Lexa in a blanket of the softest feathers.

Cocooned under the plume of love, and seeing the same pattern of a shared constellation tattooed on their ring fingers, Lexa came to realise that no amount of earthly gold could ever give her that fullness of being she felt on her wedding day.

Yet, as happy as she was, Lexa felt a little out of her depth with the ways of her new wife, and new life.

For instance, in lieu of a vow, Lexa received a sorry and a soft plea that confused her into thinking she might have married a Canadian instead of a cherub.

“I know forever isn’t long enough, and I’m sorry it’s so little,” Clarke had whispered, genuinely apologetic, “but if it’s not too much of an inconvenience, I’d like to spend it with you.”

Lexa didn’t mind, at all. Apology accepted.

But it did make her wonder if she should be issuing her own regrets rather than promises to love, honour, and ~~cherub~~ cherish.

_I’m sorry that my heart is too small to hold in what it feels when you look at me._

_I’m sorry the sun has to set every day and make me say good night to your smile, but if it’s okay with you, I’d like to be there at sunrise to see it again._

She wasn’t sure of the protocols, but wanted to get them right.

Since then, Lexa devotes her spare time to cherub scholarship—committing herself to achieving the highest level of expertise in the niche knowledge branch of all things Clarke.

There is much to read.

—

Good thing then that Polis’ black market has a dedicated and thriving subsection on cherubs and other mythical creatures. Ever since the nomenclature was prohibited from official use because of its disparaging slight on body positivity, many paperback titles were un-shelved and collecting dust in backrooms and storage boxes.

Thankfully, for Lexa’s purposes, a few entrepreneurial tradespeople saw the economic benefit of clandestine copying and distribution of the banned literature.

A new resident of Olympus, she had been making covert trips to the stalls under the guise of exploring the city’s bazaars.

Clarke had warned her to be careful with the hagglers, especially the deceptively kind-looking faeries, concerned that her human-innocence was prime for the picking. Lexa waved off her wife’s worry, reassuring Clarke that her new position as assistant to the mountain’s top litigator should inoculate her from any commercial wrong-doing.

Her trips indeed proved fruitful, and only mildly criminal. The pilfered readings held invaluable insights into the inner workings of Clarke’s make of angels.

Some confirmations were welcoming, like how anatomically very similar they are to humans, which Lexa was grateful for because she didn’t want to lose the hard-earned knowledge-base she had built with the female body. It was good to know, and rather reassuring, that most holes remained in the same general locations.

Other tidbits were informative, like why the tips of their wings are very sensitive—high concentration of nerves—which Lexa had empirically found out during a heated make-out session when she accidentally brushed the ends and got slapped by a wing.

Meanwhile, there were quite a few enlightening disclosures that were essential to solving mysteries like the small puffs of white that usually came after breakfast, and accompanied by rosy cheeks and her wife’s refusal to make eye contact, until lunch time and the cycle would start again.

 _Angel farts_.

It would explain why their kitchen always looked to be hosting a meteorological convention of clouds descended from the heavens. She had assumed Clarke was a climate change activist.

Unlike the deadly human variety, at least angel farts didn’t smell. The opposite, actually. Rather pleasant like Eau d’Wisteria.

There was also practical advice on how to deal with the occasionally challenging personality traits, like for how sweet and bubbly they are most of the time, they can be very hot-tempered.

Though, Lexa didn’t need a book to figure this last point. She didn’t know what angel fury was until she had misplaced Clarke’s feather wax in the closet, thinking it was shoe shine.

“No, Lexa. This is like my mascara. Do you want me to go out with naked lashes?”

No, Lexa did not.

She had to apologise profusely, and express her contrition through many many kisses, before Clarke calmed down, near tears over possibly having to cancel her weekly dinner with Aphrodite because she can’t go out looking like _that_ next to the goddess of beauty. While Clarke was tepid towards Cupid on the best of days, she idolised his mother for all of the calendar year.

“I’m sorry, love. You always look beautiful to me.”

Earning back a brilliant smile, Lexa helped to wax her wings and return them to their usual glory. Like ebony on alabaster. They then went about the house systematically labelling things, _Important to Clarke_. It mutually appeased Lexa’s need for order and Clarke’s need for her not to throw out her things—and prevented any future domestic miscommunications.

The one area, however, that Lexa didn’t require supporting documentation was Clarke’s high sex drive. It made sense that for how emotionally empathetic the celestial beings are, of course they would experience intimacy very intensely. Given her own growing attachment, she can understand the addiction to that feeling and the need to be constantly touched.

It also accounted for their general lack of personal space. When they weren’t actively doing something productive, the couple would more than likely be horizontal, and sometimes vertical.

And in the specific case of having an angel of breath as her spouse, Lexa was never at a lost for oxygen, and their rounds could last days, not just hours. Sometimes, only full-time jobs and basic life functions like eating and doing taxes would keep them off their backs.

But nonetheless, the more Lexa experienced life with an angel, the more she wanted to know. The more she read.

At the very least, to compare practice and theory.

—

A year later, and the black market vendors know her by first name. Which, had it been for any other reason, Lexa would appreciate their cordiality and camaraderie. As an immigrant, she should feel gratitude for the continued welcome mat.

Instead, she feels a deep blush every time coins and counterfeits are exchanged, when more often than not the transaction is accompanied by too-knowing smiles, and on occasion, completely unnecessary winks.

Six months ago, Lexa had accidentally bought a book with the wrong cover, that had shook her. When she went to dive into the pages of _The Anatomy of Cherubs_ , her entire upper body flushed pink to read _Cherub’s Anatomy_.

The title inversion—and lost of article and preposition—wasn’t just a slight grammatical difference. It was a complete semantic and thematic reversal.

Rather than scientific facts on the perfunctory muscular systems of winged angels, it was a very detailed narrative on what those muscles were doing behind the doors of on-call rooms and atop of hospital beds.

To her (immediate) horror and (not much later) delight, Lexa had stumbled upon Cherub Erotica.

She had instantly flung the paperback across their apartment, propelled by unreasonable worry that her fingerprints might burn from holding onto such blasphemy for so long, hoping the force of her throw would cause self-destruction on impact—much like Clarke’s arrows.

But after some pacing, and intensive dish-washing, it wasn’t an hour later before she went to pick it up again.

And then she couldn’t put it down.

Thinking of Clarke’s stethoscope and how they first met, Lexa couldn’t help but visualise her cherub with nothing on but the metal instrument.

She had never read so fast in her life, or taken a colder shower afterwards.

The next week, if anyone asked, she wouldn’t admit to spending a little longer in the back row of the book stall. Lithe fingers carefully thumbing through the innocuous titles—her perusal now more vigilant to detecting double-entendres and ambiguous summaries.

If anyone asked, especially Clarke, she wouldn’t admit that her eyes widened impossibly when she discovered that _Cherub’s Anatomy_ was part of a series. At least a five-parter, from what was on offer at the table.

Gleeful wouldn’t be the right word to describe Lexa’s reaction. She would like to think that her carefully-set expression only relayed calm and cool and collected, as though there hadn’t been a sale on candles and she hadn’t wanted to run out of the market screaming for joy.

In the end, showing the utmost self-restraint, she only picked up Part Two, and hid it between _Olympus Tax Law, A Thrilling History_ , and _What Humans Say (But Don’t Mean), An Insider’s Guide_ , walking leisurely home as if it were any other Sunday. There was no skip to her step.

Soon thereafter, the weekly grocery run would also include procuring the censored material. Sometimes, the two objectives would overlap, like when she came across _Cherries & Cherubs_ while picking up the seasonal fruits (they love all kinds of berries). But often, she’d have to be tactical about keeping her perishables from her porn.

—

It has been a precarious balancing act that an erudite Lexa is happy to weigh in her drive to quench her (knowledge) thirst.

—

This is how Lexa finds herself in a compromising situation one late afternoon, while _reading_ on their couch.

Clarke will be home shortly from her long work day of breath play, but Lexa has lost all concept of time.

Too lost in her latest volume: _Bend-Her, Cherubs of Fire_.

Sitting with her back against the couch’s arm, and her legs out in front of her, crossed at the ankles and propped up by cushions, she pushes the bridge of her glasses up as she flips to the next page of the erotic interpretation of the climatic chariot race scene in the Charlton Heston classic Ben-Hur.

Her heart is racing, and her glasses keep sliding down her nose because of the perspiration collecting there. Her lower lip is chewed almost raw.

The pounding of the horses hoofs beat in time with other rhythmic pulsing in her body, as she reads of a half-naked cherub standing atop her chariot and cracking the whip. She imagines blonde hair flapping in the wind while a golden bodice, barely covering anything, fights against gravity and cleavage to remain in place.

With all the reading she does, Lexa has an expansive, vivid imagination and interprets each sentence as its own cinematic scene.

There’s a close-up of the horse’s panting, split edited with the cherub’s heavy breathing, then cutaway to glistening skin, back to the hoofs against dirt, pan out to the roaring crowds, and then close-up again to steely blue eyes before the camera tracks across to the rippled muscle of a forearm in mid-whip.

All of which would be fine, had there not been a secondary driver standing behind the cherub, looking suspiciously a lot like a brunette human.

The taller driver is only wearing a bandeau and short shorts, both black, while her wild hair spills out from under a centurion helmet with red plumes sprouting from its top. The bronze of her helmet matches the gold patina of the cherub’s lace fabric. They’re both covered in glitter and sweat.

Lexa squeezes her thighs, her glasses hanging on for dear life from small ears.

The centurion’s right hand is pressed firmly against the cherub’s stomach, holding her in close, back flushed to front. Her left hand is massaging a breast, squeezing it in-between supple rolls of a nipple, before switching to give the other side the same attention.

The cherub seems unfazed as she commands the four white horses around the arena, masterfully handling the whip and reins. Whatever moans she’s emitting are lost in the sounds of cracked leather and the spectators’ cheers.

Kisses mark the column of neck, tongue laving and lips sucking. The centurion’s head is cocked in such a way, and her upper body strategically positioned, to avoid the wings. Lexa is glad for the erotica author’s attention to detail, the accurate depiction reflects her own experience of avoiding a mouth full of feathers during coupling. It’s always good to see self-representation in literature.

Before Lexa’s academic mind can delve further into the relationship between identity and media, her eyes skip to the words, _the centurion’s right hand moves lower_. Her breath hitches. All thoughts of equality are pushed to the side as lace is also pushed aside and fingers dip in.

That finally gets a reaction from the cherub, who pushes against the hand to find friction, and tilts her head for her moan to be swallowed by the awaiting mouth.

Lexa gulps in sympathy.

Her fictional counterpart gasps into the kiss as her search finds wet warmth.

Out of solidarity, Lexa places her hand inside her shorts to mirror their actions.

She starts up a rhythm of circular strokes followed by a deliberate slow swipe of thumb. For every stroke and swipe, the centurion sucks harder, switching between tongue and bottom lip, the cherub blindly cracks her whip, the horses grunt, the crowd roars.

With the speed of the race, she wonders if the audience can even see what’s happening between the two drivers. To them, it might just look like very enthusiastic back-seat driving. But she has no time to consider the voyeuristic implications.

Stroke, swipe, suck.

Crack, grunt, roar.

Stroke, swipe, suck.

_Oh, gods._

Lexa is having a hard time keeping up with the relentless pace, her hand starting to cramp. Her calves too from all the toe curling. She should have stretched earlier.

Her glasses are completely off the tip of her nose now. But with one hand holding the book and the other very busy as well, there isn’t much she can do about it. Lexa chides herself, making a mental note to plan better and wear contacts next time.

 _Stretch. Contacts_. ( _Chapstick_ too, her lips are feeling a little crack.)

Though it’s a small blessing that the sweat running down her forehead onto her nose nowhere matches the amount of moisture between her legs.

Soon, all thoughts of preparedness and moisture content give way to the slide of her hand as it continues to follow the book’s detailed instructions.

Stroke, swipe, suck.

Stroke, swipe—

_Oh, no._

Lexa needs to turn the page.

But, how?

She doesn’t know what to do, looking forlornly at both occupied hands. Does she withdraw the one in her shorts? That would seem counterproductive. The one holding the book doesn’t seem to want to let go either.

Nose, it is.

She brings the book close to her face. The words _rigorous rub_ come into then blur out of focus. Lexa ignores them for the moment as she tries to use the tip of her nose as leverage, but it’s difficult with the rims of her glasses paragliding off its edge. When that ultimately doesn’t work, a collaborative effort between chin and jaw comes to the rescue.

Successfully back on track, Lexa resumes her movements with renewed commitment. She’s lost a few precious minutes. But it’s ok, she thinks, picking up the pace. Victory stands on the back of sacrifice.

By the time two, then three, fingers enter inside the cherub and begin a new pattern of thrust and curl, both Warrior Lexa and Lawyer Lexa are loudly moaning and panting. The crowds’ roaring crescendoes to such deafening heights in her ears that Lexa misses the sound of her front door opening and closing.

She doesn’t register Clarke’s presence until soft lips brush against her ear, at the exact moment that the centurion and the cherub reach their peak.

Lexa screams.

Clarke screams.

“Holy Zeus and Hades!”

“Hillary Rodham Clinton!”

Clarke jumps back startled, while Lexa covers a hand to her chest.

That was maybe too much excitement, and a different type of finish than what she had been working towards.

—

“I’m so sorry, you ok?” Lexa asks worried, once her own heart rate returns to normal.

She’s never been so happy to see white ear buds being pulled out of her wife’s ears. It’s likely that she hadn’t heard anything.

Clarke waves her off and bends down to be eye level with her.

“Absorbed in your reading again?” Her wife asks fondly, pushing her glasses back up, and gesturing to the book now rested spine-up atop of her stomach.

Lexa almost panics remembering the evidence below belt and what she had just been up to, but then looks down relieved to see that she at least had the foresight to hide the paperback behind a larger hardcover with a less suspicious title.

Lexa had to increase her efforts at subterfuge after Clarke almost caught her once when a traitorous whimper had escaped at the same time that her wife had walked into the den. It took some quick-footed offence—and insistent, distracting lips—to prevent the truth from coming out.

“Hi,” she greets properly instead and leans forward closing her eyes to seek out warm lips, a cute gesture that her wife rewards with a soft, slow kiss.

“Hi.”

“How was work?” Lexa asks as she shuffles herself into position to make room for the angel to sit across her lap. She discretely wipes her hand against the back of a cushion.

“Sucks.” At Lexa’s quirked eyebrow for elaboration, Clarke tells her, “it’s so hard to hold back my secret power when training on earth with first responders. I wish I could _blow_ them away with my neat trick.”

Lexa chuckles. She entwines their fingers with one (clean) hand while gently rubbing the angel’s soft belly with the other, all the while staring dopily into tired eyes.

“So, you’ve had a bad day? Does this mean … ?”

Given what’s happened earlier she’s not sure she’s ready for what’s about to happen.

Clarke pats her cheek in confirmation and gets up, lifting her top with her as she rises. Next go her pants, and then undergarments.

“Like this is such a hardship for you,” she says with an extra swing to her hips.

If only her wife knew. It is, it really is.

There were two fundamental things Lexa learned about cherubs. One, they are germaphobes and love cleanliness. (Except Cupid.) Two, they also love to be naked, whenever possible. (The classic paintings didn’t lie.) So naturally, when they clean, they do so with as little clothing as is comfortable.

Clarke’s particular take is that she stress-cleans, and likes to decompress after a rough day at work by cleaning. _Naked_.

A duster, porcelain skin, and black wings don’t help Lexa’s sticky situation.

She feels stricken, casting a conflicting look to the book under the book, unsure if it’d be appropriate to continue reading about an aroused cherub while a real life one stands a couple of feet away, nude, dusting a bookshelf, her bum cheeks swaying with the sweeping movements. But, she’s equally unsure if she can continue to sit on the couch and do nothing about her own arousal.

“Babe, didn’t I tell you to stop going to the market for your pulp fiction?” Clarke asks over her shoulder.

Lexa’s internal struggle is quickly replaced by fear that she’s been found out after all. If she pretends not to know what Clarke is talking about, which 80% of the time is true anyways, then she can avoid it. Avoidance, it’s the pillar of marriage.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a perfectly good baby store around the corner if you wanted real information.”

Relief washes over her again, immediately followed by the deepest swell of affection seeing the slight protrusion on her wife’s uncovered body. Her arousal completely forgotten.

She smiles, rubbing a finger over the lettering of the hardcover, unable to keep the joy from brimming over.

 _What to Expect When You’re Expecting Cherubs_.

—

That was perhaps the most unexpected but pleasant surprise of all. Apparently, there is a little something extra when angels climax that, when mixed with pure human love, creates life.

Clarke tried to shift responsibility of their procreation success onto how Lextra she was when they made love.

Whatever the case, it was rare, but not unheard of. At least, that’s what the contraband publications say.

For once, Lexa didn’t care for what the history or biology books tell her. She was simply ecstatic that she and Clarke had been able to breathe new life. That might be Clarke’s best trick of all.

“We can go to the bookshop together tomorrow,” her wife says after her chore is complete, and comes up to lay a tender kiss on her forehead.

As Lexa presses an ear against the angel’s belly, and rubs it, reading is the last thing on her mind.

She’ll happily satiate her thirst for knowledge later, and has already queued up an exhaustive reading list for her next self-education project: half-cherubs.

But for now, Lexa rises from her seat, wraps her arms around a naked waist and gives her full-cherub a deep, long kiss.

It’s the best kind of finish for her night.

Clarke’s wings span to envelop them.

—

“We should also buy more cherries,” Clarke mumbles into the skin of Lexa’s neck when they’re curled in bed later, with Lexa as usual the front spoon to avoid accidental assault by wings.

“Anything, love,” Lexa assents as she nearly dozes off.

“And babe?”

“Yes?”

“ _Bend Her Too_ is better.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been really fun to write. I couldn’t get Cherubs of Fire out of my head, and the image of Clarke (and Lexa) riding a chariot. I also couldn’t get the [Bangles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSoOFn3wQV4) song out of my head. So, naturally, I thought I’d be productive and combine the two. :-)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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